


Familiar (Like My Mirror, Years Ago)

by jannah (fromjannah)



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Exile Fic, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Platonic Relationships, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, no one knows about ghostbur basically, not actually RPF, yeah i'm writing one of these again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29411628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromjannah/pseuds/jannah
Summary: In exile, a strange, perky, almost familiar voice has been accompanying Tommy. He brushes it off as just some family-hearing-voices thing. He's wrong.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Kudos: 89





	Familiar (Like My Mirror, Years Ago)

**Author's Note:**

> And we're back. This is super scuffed once more. I didn't expect to write this; the idea just kind of hung out in my head but then I wrote a little bit and then I started changing the perspective and then it just ran away from me. Exile fics are my true weakness. I think I drafted this three times in one week? It was not fun but now we're here. 
> 
> Canon divergence is just that Ghostbur is supposedly not around, played with the timeline some just for plot convenience as well.
> 
> TW for themes of manipulation and abuse in reference to Dream. You know, fun exile stuff.
> 
> Title is taken from Hozier's "From Eden". 
> 
> This fic is about the SMP characters and not the streamers themselves.
> 
> Enjoy.

Tommy slams the mailbox shut with little care. Nothing. Obviously this isn't surprising, but he keeps holding on to little shreds of hope -- stupidly, foolishly, god he’s such an _idiot_. Dream is the only person who will visit him. Dream is the only person who cares about him.

_You needn't be so aggressive. Calm yourself._

Tommy scowls at the empty space, very aggressively and not remotely calm. "Shut up. I'll do what I want."

_I -- I -- I just think that you're going to hurt yourself or something. It's just a mailbox._

Pressing his hands to his ears, Tommy walks determinedly into Tnrent. "Look, I'm ignoring you. I don't want to speak with you right now, okay? I just -- I just want to sit here. And be quiet."

 _You're not very good at being quiet. I don't think this'll go very well, to be quite honest._ The voice is always honest, horribly, innocuously so. Tommy hates it with every fibre of his being. Tommy hopes it'll be staying around.

"Did I fucking ask? Did I?" Tommy lays down on the thin bundle of cloth on the ground, feeling every pebble and blade of grass, god _damn_ he misses beds. 

_See! You talked._

There is a far-off, distant giggle that follows this, much too light-hearted for this seemingly bleak situation. Tommy wants to scream. Tommy wants to hear the laugh again.

"Why can't you just -- dunno, go to Techno or something. He hears voices all the time." Tommy probably isn't supposed to know this, but he isn't stupid. He had grown up with Techno; he had seen his face during Tubbo's execution, the shift from confusion and anxiety to something else, something darker, a bloodlust. 

_I think you need the company,_ offers the voice. 

"I don't need the company from something fake," mutters Tommy. He does. He needs something -- the mere suggestion of seeing Dream fills him with a complicated mix of euphoria and disgust; the voice makes him confidently annoyed. Irritation is easier to feel, to figure out, to deal with. 

_I'm not fake._ The voice sounds faintly insulted by this, like it always does, but never harsh.

Tommy laughs, bitter. The family curse is catching up to him, it seems. "You're in my fucking head."

There's a blissfully long, stretched silence, but for some reason, Tommy feels cursedly awkward during it. _Okay,_ the voice says meekly in its shaking, echoey manner. _If you say so._

\---

It’s one of the badder days. Dream had come that day, blew up some more things. Tommy never liked the sound of TNT but just the idea of an explosion now makes his blood curdle. Even the smell of lighting a fire makes him nauseous, so he just goes cold. _Maybe_ , he thinks to himself, _I deserve it._

The voice argues otherwise, but what does it know? 

He can't sleep, so he lays down outside and stares up at the dark, dark sky, pinpricked with stars. He used to sky gaze with Tubbo all the time, back on their bench. 

He blinks back tears -- from emotion or the cool night breeze kicking around, who could be sure -- and blows out a very long, shuddering sigh.

Some humming starts after a moment and Tommy shuts his eyes in annoyance, in gratitude. "I don't want to speak with you right now," he says tightly.

 _I'm not speaking,_ says the voice, lightly argumentative. Its inflections, intonations are very vaguely similar to someone, someone that Tommy is trying his damnedest not to think about. He pushes the thought away with ferocity. _I'm only humming. I think it's nice._

"I don't."

Wilbur used to hum a lot, or drum his fingers on tables to figure out beats. It had gotten on Tommy's nerves. He misses it.

The grass shuffles around next to him; in the wind, Tommy assumes. He inhales-exhales again, chest tight.

 _Why -- why -- um, why don’t you tell me a story, Tommy?_ suggests the voice, tentative. _It could be about er, maybe your Tubbo --_

“No,” Tommy interrupts immediately, with no room for argument. Just the phrase ‘your Tubbo’ makes him feel dizzy and ill and horrible.

Slowly: _Your family, maybe?_

Tommy winces, chewing on his raw, bloodied bottom lip. He really prefers to not think about Techno or Phil and certainly not Wilbur, but, god, the voice is right, he is so bad at being quiet. 

Tommy shuts his eyes and slowly starts talking about his family’s first Christmas with Techno back after he started traveling between worlds. He talks about how he was twelve and Techno got him his first disc from off-world and how Phil got new slippers and how Wilbur got some book about some revolution. It had been nice. It had also been the last time they had all spent Christmas together. He acts like Wilbur's voice -- not the one of his brother, but the one of the ruined man who had spiraled -- doesn’t haunt his dreams. He acts like the image of Technoblade’s withers -- and that hadn’t been his brother either, he knew -- doesn’t make him bolt awake at night.

The voice doesn’t say anything the whole time.

\---

It becomes sort of a custom, as time goes on: if Tommy can't sleep, he'll tell the voice a story about Techno or Phil or even Tubbo. Never Wilbur in depth, though, only vaguely or in passing. He has a trove of good memories with his second eldest brother, of course, but they were all tainted, so tainted. 

\---

Despite being surrounded by people, his cabinet, Tubbo feels so terribly alone. Every time his head conjures up fond memories, they're tainted by Tommy's presence -- and of course they are, Tommy is ( _had been_ ) his closest friend, the source of all those good memories.

Tubbo exhales slowly, flexing his shaking hands as he knots his tie cleanly. A deep chill enters the room and his mussed hair ruffles around in the draft. A shiver travels up his spine. It's almost comforting. 

Shutting his eyes, Tubbo clutches the fabric of the tie in his hands tightly. He couldn't dwell on memories. Not with an entire country waiting for him. 

\---

Logstedshire got blown up. Tommy realizes that Dream was wrong. Tommy goes north. Tommy lives in Technoblade’s basement. Tommy gets caught.

Tommy doesn't get thrown out. Tommy gets to live in a slightly nicer part of the basement.

The voice has been gone since he left Logstedshire. It is decidedly strange. Tommy pretends he doesn't care -- and it all _is_ a little easier, staying with Techno and Phil -- but it’s just empty.

He isn't thinking about that, though, at the moment, he is thinking about how Techno seems insistent on feeding him and how he has to go sit through breakfast with his eldest brother (for the third time this week, which is just _bizarre_ ) and how his socks are very wet from the snow and he needs new ones. 

He digs around an ender chest with his bits of belongings, looking for a pair of dry socks because of course he would put _socks_ in an ender chest, shuffling away the new clothes Phil had given him and the burnt edges of photographs. He finds the socks and is about to close the chest when something catches his eye.

It is a palm-sized compass, shiny and well made, steadily pointing steadily at -- well, he isn't sure what exactly it’s pointing at, but he thinks that it might be pointing back in the direction of L’manberg. He turns it over, finding an engraving on the back: _Your Tubbo._

“The hell?” he mutters to himself in bewilderment, tracing a finger over it. His first terrified reaction is that it's somehow from Dream -- but that's impossible and simply out of character; Techno wouldn’t go through his things and word it like that, Phil either. 

There's only one person who used such phrasing and that… it didn’t make sense.

"You comin' or not, Tommy?" calls Technoblade from upstairs. 

Tommy shoves the compass into a pocket of a thick, well-made cloak that Phil had given him. It's so strange to be warm for once, even out here in the north. 

He goes upstairs and eats breakfast and tries to forget about it. 

\---

He doesn't forget about it. Later on, he falls asleep with it in his hand, metal growing warm as the compass is kept close to his heart.

\---

Contrary to popular belief, Tubbo is not stupid. He even fancies himself rather logical-minded at times; he'll put his head over his heart and he'll think things through for the better good. 

But he doesn't have to be logical-minded to think that a random compass appearing in his office is very strange indeed. 

He checks it for anything that might make it dangerous, but really, it seems perfectly fine. He isn't sure where it's pointing to, exactly, and the only clue is the careful engraving of _Your Tommy_ on the back. It's very, very strange; he can't think of anyone who would say such a thing or would drop it off without telling him. Chances are that it leads to some trap. Tubbo isn’t even sure where it’s pointing to. But it is still oddly comforting.

He hangs it around a chain and keeps it tucked securely under his presidential suit.

\---

 _Oh, Tommy, I finally found you!_ chirps the voice, a little more than a week after Tommy had officially been found out by Techno. _I definitely haven't been here before._

For a moment, the voice unsettles Tommy -- it's reminiscent of Logstedshire, which is full of horrible, jagged memories, full of Dream's blank face and caressing voice. He’s distracted enough to miss the evident falsity in the last statement. 

He shuts his eyes and tries to summon up some bravado as a protective measure, reminding himself that he wasn't there, he was safe. In the back of his mind, he was somewhat confused that the voice was still around, really. "What d'you mean, 'find' me? You're in my head."

There's a moment of silence before the voice exclaims, _Well, I -- I -- I'm here now, I can be with you. And you're with Tech! That's nice. I -- I, er, I remember the stories you told me about him. He seems really nice._ It does sound well and truly happy for him, not that flimsy cheer that it seems to often put on.

Tommy misses the gentle way the voice addresses his eldest brother with a nickname, instead laughing a bit sardonically. "He's not all fun and games, you know." He pauses, biting the inside of his cheek, a habit he had picked up in Logstedshire when he was without food. It had left a nasty patch of thick, scarred skin in his mouth. "But he's okay, I guess. Phil -- err, Dad is here, too."

The voice, again, doesn't reply for a minute. _Oh. Is that so?_

"Mhm. It's -- " Tommy laughs again, this time breathy and a little wistful. "We haven't been all together like this in _ages_. Well, all together minus Wilbur. I never really told you much about Wilbur, but -- "

 _It's fine,_ the voice says with an uncanny sense of clarity. _I don't need to hear about him._

"Oh," Tommy says, a little surprised. He finds that it’s easier to mention Wilbur; maybe because of the fewer nightmares he had been getting ever since he arrived up north, maybe because the nostalgia of being around his incomplete family catching up to him and freshening up his old memories from their dark hold, painting them in rose instead. "Yeah, no, you don't. Er, anyway…"

Tommy chatters on easily and the voice just listens. It's almost like old times.

\---

Tommy whiles away the days caring for turtles and bees and plants and eating Techno's gapples, much to his brother's dismay. The sweetness and rush of energy is near-addicting, and he can't help but crunch through the concern as he hides when Dream arrives.

His presence brings shivers down Tommy's spine, but he holds the fruit in one hand and the compass shoved into his pocket in the other, focusing on Techno's dry deadpanned remarks to ground himself. 

He feels like the voice should've been there, soothing him like before, but tells himself that he doesn't need it.

\---

Tubbo is so goddamn overworked. Eret had come over today for diplomacy matters and while that had been nice, it had ultimately been exhausting. Tiredly, he wishes that Tommy could be with him -- the other boy always made difficult tasks easier with his stupid humor and light-hearted teasing and by just _being_ there. 

That thought is the last straw; it's the loose thread that, when pulled, unravels him entirely. He falls into his desk chair, slumping down and pressing his hands into his eyes, drawing in deep breaths that border on sobs.

_Oh, oh no, that's no good, that's no good at all._

Blinking rapidly, Tubbo looks up, squinting around in the dim light of his office. "Hello?" he says into the air shakily -- he had heard something, a pitchy, echoey voice from everywhere and nowhere all the same. It is almost familiar. 

There's a pause. _You can -- you can hear me?_

Tubbo reaches into his inventory for a sword, determinedly pushing his tiredness away. "Who's there?" he asks with more resolve. 

In the lacking light, he swears that there's something -- no, _someone_ there between the shadows: a man with a mop of dark waves of hair partially hidden by a beanie and wearing an oversized, bloodied sweater, his eyes fixated right on Tubbo with obvious horror. 

Tubbo raises his sword slowly, looking up and down the hauntingly familiar man who seems to be almost transparent, looks like he's almost floating. He knows it’s impossible, but he still queries: " _Wilbur?_ "

The man's eyes widen and when Tubbo blinks, he's gone.

As he lies in bed, he tells himself it was just the exhaustion of the day catching up to him or something, but when Tubbo gets up the next morning, he checks a few books on the SMP's fickle three lives system. And on ghosts. 

He looks scrutinizingly over his compass. The craftsmanship is almost familiar.

\---

Tommy is eating dinner with Techno and Phil. It's strange, it's so strange, he barely can comprehend it. They're all sitting at the small dinner table like they had used to as well -- Phil at the head, Tommy at the foot, Techno to the right, and an empty chair was on the left. Wilbur would've sat there.

Phil idly talks about the bee colony he was setting up as Tommy slurped at hot stew. For a moment he could've sworn that the table was full-seated, with Wilbur sitting in his chair, listening attentively, head laying in hand.

 _Just memories_ , Tommy tells himself, nearly biting his tongue. _Just memories._

Oddly enough, he finds that this memory (surely that’s what it is) of Wilbur causes a fierce ache in his heart. Perhaps it is because this Wilbur is not a paranoid man who blew up his own country. 

Tommy is not stupid, but he can be a little dense at times.

\---

One evening, Tubbo comes back from a cabinet meeting to his office, tired as always. 

He's focused on loosening his tie and figuring out if he should be meeting up with Dream soon -- it had been nearly a week and he was trying to avoid it -- but was distracted as a distinct chill left the room.

Tubbo swallows, Adam's apple bobbing as he recalled snippets of passages from the reading he had done recently: _spirits are widely unresearched… often block out bad memories to cope… found to be very different than they were in life…_

Steeling himself and resisting the urge to take out a weapon, Tubbo asks the empty room, "Wilbur? Are you there?" 

_I -- I don't --_

The sound is strained, confused; like he -- the voice? -- the spirit? -- isn't sure. 

"You don't have to speak with me," Tubbo says quickly, words stumbling over themselves, heart beating loudly in his ears, "if you don't want to. I just…" 

He looks down at his neck and the chain under his button-up shirt.

"I just wanted to thank you for the compass. You did make it, right?"

 _Yes! Yes, I -- I did._ The tone of whoever's speaking turns brighter, shrugging off some of the hazy tone easily. _I, er. I'm really glad you like it._

"So, you're…" Tubbo squints into the shadows, weighing his words, ignoring the impossibility of the ghost making a compass. "Are you Wilbur, then?"

There's a hacking noise that catches him by surprise -- a cough? _I… I'm not… I might've been him, but now…_

"It's okay," Tubbo says as gently as he can. "It's -- you don't have to tell me, if you don't want to. I'll go." 

A quick: _No -- no, Tubbo, wait._

Tubbo waits. 

The spirit parses out a slow tale in his echoing, pitched rasp, peppered with long ellipses into silence as well as moments of confusion and uncertainty. _I would’ve told someone, I really would’ve, but Tubbo -- Tubbo, I think so many people hate me. So many. Especially Tommy._ It’s all unbelievable, absurd. Some time in, Tubbo realizes that that barely-visible image has appeared across from him again: that sliver of a man with sick gray skin, somehow stained with dark blue.

Tubbo’s life has been getting awfully impossible lately, the child president thinks as he listens to the shell of his country’s former leader, familiar and foreign all the same. It’s almost nice.

\---

Tommy comes up out of the basement one day to find Technoblade pouring a big mug of tea with someone very strange indeed -- someone with dark, empty eyes; a mess of brown hair; a bright grin plastered on his hollow face.

“Hi, Tommy,” he says, a bit nervous but earnest. His voice -- well, it is _the_ voice. 

Tommy’s jaw drops and he shoves his hand into his pocket as a reaction, gripping the compass comfortably settled there. “What,” he states eloquently, “the fuck.”

“Y’know, I was gonna ask you the same thing,” says Techno dryly, jutting his chin at the floating ghost of Wilbur Soot -- _holy shit that’s Wilbur what the shit WHAT._ “Wanna explain how long Casper here has been around?” 

Tommy can only swallow and shrug. “I think I need an explanation too, honestly.”

So Tommy listens.

**Author's Note:**

> And we're done! My Tubbo apologist self was really jumping out here huh. Ramble incoming, so tl;dr: kudo, comment, share, and subscribe to Technoblade. Thanks for reading!
> 
> I rewrote parts of this so many goddamn times. My wifi cut out a few times over the week so I just wrote this piece of god knows what on offline docs, so a lot of the original draft was late night deprived wifi thoughts. It was terrifying. 
> 
> I might add a second chapter to this with Techno finding out about Ghostbur; I just think that there's such an interesting relationship there and, well, the ending set it up, admittedly. We'll see. I am notoriously bad writing multi chaptered stuff. Let me know if you'd like to see more, please. 
> 
> I think that Ghostbur's voice sounded very far away and difficult to pinpoint at times, which is why professional himbo Tommy didn't catch on sooner. Also denial. You know the five stages of grief: denial, denial, denial, denial, bitch. 
> 
> I just have so many thoughts about Tubbo being a literal child president and martyr (also past presidents of L'manberg have a fun pattern of dying young that's fun). So many. This fic was originally going to be only Tommy-centric and then... it got away from me. Why am I like this.
> 
> If you've gotten down here, thanks for reading my word dump and for reading my mess in general! If you like more unknown Ghostbur stuff, I have a fic called "Sisyphus" which you might enjoy, so maybe check that out. But you reading this was already rad enough, so, again, thank you.


End file.
